


Assorted Tumblr Ficlets [ASOIAF]

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:35:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets written for prompts of Tumblr. Characters, pairings, and ratings will vary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. uncertain - Davos/Marya, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://usetheforcelucius.tumblr.com/)[ **usetheforcelucius**](http://usetheforcelucius.tumblr.com/) prompted _Davos and Stannis, shortly after the seige of Storm's End. Maybe Davos is introducing Marya?_ My brain turned it into Davos and Marya talking about Stannis, IDEK.

The wheelhouse pitched and rolled no worse than a ship in choppy waters, but Davos felt strangely ill -- perhaps from the close air, perhaps from nerves. It was a warm day, and the roads through the Kingswood were rutted and rough. Beside him, Marya sat as still as a silent sister, her fingers twisted into the folds of her skirts. Her dress was new, made from blue silk Davos had purchased with the first honest money he'd never held in his hands; he'd never seen Marya look so fine, but she seemed concerned that she did not look fine enough.

"What kind of man is Lord Stannis?" she asked quietly, and not for the first time. Davos gave her the only answer he had. 

"He is a good man. A just man."

Marya made a soft, uncertain noise. "And why would a good and just man make a smuggler a knight?"

Davos had no answer for that at all, and he'd asked himself as much half a hundred times. Lords were queer men with queer ways, and Lord Stannis was queerer still -- prickly and proud, yet simple in his dress and manners and speech. Davos had spent nearly two full turns at Storm's End while waiting for Eddard Stark to march south and properly lift the siege, and in that time he'd learned that Lord Stannis did the things he did for his own reasons, and he rarely suffered being questioned.

"I saved his life," Davos said, frowning slightly. It still seemed strange to him, that with a black boat and a good tide he'd kept five hundred men from starving to death. He'd known hunger in his life, as had anyone who came from Flea Bottom, but he'd never seen the shadows of his own ribs, and he'd never felt pangs so strong they drove him to eat the leather off his boots. Some of Lord Stannis' men had cried at the very sight of Davos' onions, and they'd all eaten those onions raw, unwilling to wait the time it would've taken to have them sliced and stewed. "He said he wants me repaid."

"He gave you gold enough. I can't understand a knighthood as well."

It wasn't unheard of, for common men to be raised up in reward for leal service, but those common men had rarely lived so far and long outside the law. "Would you have had me refuse him?"

"No, I -- I don't know," Marya admitted, spots of color blooming on her cheeks. She was still as pretty as she'd been the day they wed, some seven years ago. "We did well enough."

They had lived a meager life in Flea Bottom, in two small and noisome rooms above a tanner, but their roof had never leaked, and their sons had never gone without clothes or shoes, and if the mutton he'd brought home had been fatty and cheap it had still been better than bowls of brown. They _had_ done well enough, and if Davos displeased Lord Stannis somehow, or Lord Stannis found an error in his own judgement, then they would end up back in Flea Bottom and with less than they'd had before.

"Ser Davos," she said slowly. The title sounded strange from her mouth and even stranger in Davos' ears. "I don't know how to be a lady."

"And I don't know how to be a knight," he said, taking her hand. "We will learn it together."

The wheelhouse jostled to a stop, and Davos listened to the noises beyond the door -- the rumbling voice of the driver and the easy laughter of his sons. Little Matthos was asleep, nestled into a tiny cradle at Marya's feet, but Maric and Allard were outside with the men; once it had been learned they'd never sat a horse, two of the Baratheon knights had let them ride double.

 _They will learn to ride now, and to fight, and perhaps even to read._ Davos had not intended to become a smuggler; he'd berthed on the _Cobblecat_ after his parents died because it meant three full meals a day and a warm place to sleep at night, but he'd earned himself a black name long before he'd been old enough to truly care about such things. He had no honest trade to teach his sons, and if he'd stayed in Flea Bottom he never would. They would've grown into smugglers themselves, or else turned into poaching or thievery.

"Storm's End, ser," the driver said, as he opened the door.

The air was fresher outside the wheelhouse, and considerably cooler, despite the sun sitting high and bright in the sky. Davos was surprised to find Lord Stannis awaiting them at the gate; he stood a hand taller than any of the guards behind him, and while he looked to have gained a full stone since Davos had seen him last, he still seemed far too gaunt for his large frame, his cheeks and jaw cut from hard, sharp angles.

Davos stretched the fingers of his maimed hand. The shortened joints ached from time to time, but it was a dull reminder rather than true pain, and a small enough price to pay for everything it would mean for his sons.


	2. where we both belong -- Jon/Val, adult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://onlyherskin.tumblr.com/)[ **onlyherskin**](http://onlyherskin.tumblr.com/) prompted _Jon/Val + I'm your woman now, Jon Snow_.

**i.**

"I'm your woman now," she says, her voice quiet, her lips against Jon's ear, and Jon spends with a jerk, his thighs shaking and his back arching off the furs.

 _No_ , Jon thinks, _I can't be_ , but his mouth won't form the words, and the knot in his throat burns hot and tastes like ash. Val stretches out beside him, her teats peeking out of her unlaced bodice and her skirts pushed up to frame her cunt, and Jon turns away, his hands shaking as he straightens his own clothes -- his black doublet and his black breeches and his black cloak lined with black fur. He wants to crawl back over her, push his cock back inside her, bury his fingers in her hair and hide his face in the curve of her neck, but his vows are a dark shadow over his shoulder, a cold weight in the low of his gut.

**ii.**

"I'm your woman now," she says, a hundred leagues south of the Wall, gasping as he sucks a wet mark into the crease of her thigh.

 _I wish you were. I wish it could be so._ Jon has nothing to offer her -- no name, no home, no gold, no future. He knows she does not care for such things, would swear to it before a heart tree if he asked, but he also knows she deserves better than the little he _does_ have, a ragged army of wildlings and deserters and the faint hope that Stannis will still have a use for him if he makes it to Winterfell alive.

He turns his head, nosing at the tawny hair curling around her cunt. Their tent is a tiny thing, little more than a length of hide hanging over a branch; it's too dark inside for Jon to see, but he can picture her -- the naked splay of her legs, the sharp and expected look in her eyes. She tilts her hips up as he licks into her, knotting her fingers in his hair, and she pulls him closer, hooking her knee over his shoulder and digging her heel into his side.

**iii.**

I'm your woman now," she says, her hair pale and bright against the blood-red canopy of the godswood. Jon's tongue feels like a strip of leather in his mouth; she is wild and fierce and beautiful, and harder and harder to deny. 

"If I return." He marches south with Stannis on the morrow, and the thought of leaving her a widow is far too painful to bear. "If I return, and if you will still have me."

She steps closer to him, letting his cock rub along the curve of her hip, and the ancient, familiar face of the heart tree sneers at him like an accusation. He had her not an hour ago, fucking her up against the wall of his bedchamber, his fingers bruising her skin and his mouth pressed to the warm stretch between her teats, but he is already itching to touch her again, to slide his hand under her skirts, to kiss the delicate shell of her ear, to set his teeth against the soft well of her lip.

"You will return," she says, her voice as sharp as a whip. "You will return, and I will have you."

**iv.**

The last handful of leagues are the worst, when Winterfell is a growing shadow on the horizon, a distant reminder of what he left behind.

She greets the riders at the gate, her hair braided over her shoulder and the sleeves of her dress dancing in the wind. Her eyes narrow as he pulls reign beside her, and he passes his horse off to a stable boy with a roiling gut and shaking hands.

"Marry me," he says, dropping to his knees despite the mud at her feet and the men milling around the yard. "Today. Now." He doesn't need a feast or a cloak, only her. He has missed her every day he was gone -- the heat of her body, the smell of her skin, the soft curve of her mouth. "If you will still have me."

"I don't need a kneeler marriage," she says, and Jon feels ill until her fingers curl in his hair. "But if it will ease your heart, I will say the words."

"I am yours."

She smiles like a wolf. "I know."


	3. what fire joins - Sigorn/Alys, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for _Alys/Sigorn, anything at all_

"Let him be scared of me," she tells Jon Snow, her eyes narrowed and her hair snapping in the wind like a banner. Her voice stays steady, as frozen as the Northern air, but her hands tremble slightly as she holds her maiden cloak closed against the thick, swirling snows. It's heavy and black, hastily sewn with a sunburst in white fur, and it smells strongly of men and a hard day's work, of leather and woodsmoke and sweat.

She knows the vows meant to be said before a heart tree, learned them first when her father bade her to catch Robb Stark's interest, and again when he promised Daryn Hornwood her hand, but the red woman's words as strange to her -- as strange as the wildling man standing silently beside her, as the idea of fleeing one wedding only to be hurried headlong into another. The ditch fire is a roaring wall of heat before her, a sharp contrast to the icy wind whipping at her back, and Melisandre's voice writhes around the falling snow, growing fevered and bright as she charges them to come to her and be as one. She raises her hands and the fire follows, the flames twisting up toward her fingers, and Alys gathers her skirts to her knees in one hand, the cold air needling through her stockings as she jumps and hopes she doesn't burn.

"Wife," Sigorn says carefully, his mouth curling around the word, and Alys suddenly remembers that they speak the Old Tongue in the high passes, that few of Sigorn's men know the Common Tongue at all. She supposes he _should_ scare her, this man she has not truly met; he is far larger than her, a head and a half taller and built like a blacksmith across the shoulders and chest, and he has a wildling's face, scarred and snowburnt under a beard that grizzles past his chin, but if his eyes are fierce they are kind as well, and his hands are surprisingly gentle as he fastens the House Thenn cloak around her shoulders.

"Two went into the flames. One emerges. What fire joins, none may put asunder."

Sigorn's armor glints darkly in the firelight, the bronze scales burnished into something close to orange, and he casts a long shadow across the courtyard, a thing that wavers as it stretches past the men scurrying toward the dining hall. He catches her hand again, his blunt fingers made clumsy by the cold and his thick leather gloves. _Husband_ , she thinks, testing the word in her mind the same way he'd tested _wife_ on his tongue; she is a woman wed now, and it doesn't frighten her nearly as much as it should.

 _Till his blood is boiling_. She smiles at him, and brushes the melting snowflakes from his beard.


	4. a siege lifted - Ned, Stannis, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://starkfish.tumblr.com/)[ **starkfish**](http://starkfish.tumblr.com/) prompted _anything with Ned and Stannis interacting._

"And what of Tyrell?" Stannis asked quietly, the first words he had spoken since he ordered the gates open. 

Ned hesitated, exhausted in a way he could feel in his hands and feet. A dull ache thrummed behind his eyes, and the muscles of his back felt twisted into knots. There had been no battle -- Tyrell had surrendered the moment Ned's banners appeared on the horizon -- but Ned had ridden hard and slept little in the last fortnight, determined to arrive at Storm's End before even one of Stannis' men starved to death.

"Lord Tyrell will present himself in King's Landing," Ned said finally.

Stannis frowned. "King's Landing." The siege had whittled him down to skin and bone, and the gaunt, sharp-angled set of his face made him seem older than his years. _We are none of us young men anymore, and perhaps Stannis least of all._ Ned had seen blood and butchery in the last year, but he had never lacked for water or food, not for more than a handful of hours. "Where he will swear fealty to Robert, and all will be forgiven."

"Yes," Ned admitted. His anger at Robert still simmered under the surface, stoked by nightmares of Elia's children, of tiny bodies wrapped in Lannister cloaks, but he would not speak ill of Robert's decisions -- not publicly, and not when Robert had sat the throne less than a full turn. "Robert is anxious to avoid a rebellion from the Reach."

"And I am anxious to see Tyrell's head on a pike," Stannis countered. "He feasted to excess within the sight of my walls, while my own men -- good men -- squabbled over roots and rats. He tossed us his scraps, and said if we hurried we could suck the marrow from the bones before it rotted away."

"Robert," Ned began, pausing as two Baratheon men in dirty, loose-fitting surcoats came down the hallway. They were chewing yellow cheese and salt pork, taken from the food stores Ned had forced Tyrell to forfeit; he had yet to see Stannis eat anything. "Robert cannot afford a Rebellion from the Reach." Too much of Robert's victory had rested on Lannister treachery, and on Jaime's personal treason against Aerys. "He is not yet in a position to push the Tyrells too far."

Stannis scoffed. "He can't believe Tyrell's men would declare for Viserys."

"I don't know what Robert believes. He ordered me to take Tyrell's surrender and send him to King's Landing."

Stannis' thin mouth twisted sharply, his narrowed eyes boring into Ned like blue augurs. Jon Arryn had once said he thought Stannis more dangerous than Robert; Ned had not believed it then, but he saw it now. Robert was short-tempered to a fault, but he laughed as easily as he raged, and he rarely stayed angry longer than turning around. Stannis was a creature of calculation and cold fury. He would never forgive, and he would never forget.

"Of course," Stannis said. His voice could have been carved from stone. "It will be as the king commands."

"Were it up to me, Tyrell would he headed for the Night's Watch." _And it is not up to me. I had that chance and I refused it, and already I do not regret it._

Stannis was silent for a moment, then said, "Food is still scarce, despite what you pried away from Tyrell's camp, but your men are welcome to rest here as long as they require."


End file.
